


Your Doubt Wounds Me

by lesboinspace



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Oneshot, Post-Apocalypse, az having NONE of it, crowley doubting how much az loves him cause he's a dummy, reflective crowley, soft babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:49:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24498967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesboinspace/pseuds/lesboinspace
Summary: After the avoided apocalypse, Crowley considers the possibility of Aziraphale moving on from him now that they've won the Earth for themselves.  Aziraphale can't let that stand, so he sets out to make it crystal clear how much Crowley means to him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 81





	Your Doubt Wounds Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was my contribution to @itsagoodomenszine on Tumblr! c: My username on there is the same if yall wanna hit me up~

Strutting about the bookshop, Crowley eyes the sloppy stacks of text with disinterest. He mills about while waiting for Aziraphale to finish up whatever he's doing before they head out. It’s been a bit over a month since the attempted apocalypse, and the odd pair have formed an even odder bond since. 

Everything came together so quickly that the demon who advances at the speed of spilling molasses is still experiencing whiplash. Good whiplash, if that’s a thing, but it’s confounding nonetheless. 

Boredom is quick to overcome him as he flips open one of the books. The sight of tiny print and pages decaying in color is met with a snarl. Leaning over, the demon sniffs the vile thing and immediately pulls back. 

The smell transfers the history of the century-old hardcopy, a glimpse of long hours bent over a desk, a room void of light besides a single candle. Ink on the tip of a quill mixes with the crude scent of burning oil, annoying the demon. 

After a moment, the author's memories are gone, slipping away like the dancing smoke of a snuffed flame. How boring. 

The floors and ceiling are far more appealing to Crowley than the many, many books scattered about the small store.

"Did you hear me?"

Crowley doesn't like books. He doesn't like the thin, frail texture of their pages; he doesn't like their unalluring scent. The demon prefers the efficiency of flapping lips. Wasting time and energy on consuming idle text offends him. 

Plus, the unique voice conveying information makes a verbal transaction almost compelling: its tone and tumbles, the twists and turns of articulated dialogue. These factors respired entertainment into brief updates with fellow hellspawn and necessary contact with humans.

"My dear, are you even listening?"

The subtext of body language is clear to Crowley, and far more amusing. A flitting gaze, drop of sweat slithering down a brow and clenched hands bring the slightest upturn to the demon's lips. 

Print is flat and dull. Being expected to apply a tone to static words, imagine and interpret is not an appealing task. 

Taking in the words of a breathing being is thrilling in comparison. Not to mention he can quite literally see into the minds and hearts of mortals, but that's an irrelevant skill.

There's also the undeniable fact that this place, despite the many fond memories of drinking and general merry, is tainted with loss. Smoke will forever linger here like a spectre, books decimated into nothing but defenseless timber. Their passages, full of whatever knowledge and historical value were void in the face of fire. 

"Crowley!"

Nearly launching out of his skin as if shedding it, Crowley turns on his heel to face his fellow not exactly mortal companion.

"Yes, what is it, love? My stars, my centuries, whatever I have that resembles a heart?"

"You didn't pick up a single word I said."

"Eh, most likely not." Aziraphale's crossed arms tighten against his chest at the casual admittance, which Crowley rolls his eyes at. "Don't look at me like that, I'm only distracted 'cause I don't get what compels you to be surrounded by these...paper sandwiches."

"...sorry, my what?" On a positive note, the angel's indignant posture uncoils with a bemused snort. However, Crowley can't stand that cheeky grin and bewildered gaze. "That really the best you could muster, as a demon?"

"Shut it. Mind's just a bit thrown off by waiting around these things for so long." Glancing down at another pile, Crowley sneers. "At least sandwiches provide some sort of, I dunno, sustenance or something. Pleasure, even."

"Oh please—"

"C'mon, you can't argue with me there! Your stomach is evidence enough."

"Have you even read a book? Held one?"

In a small show of defense, Crowley's arms swing outwards, shoulders raised. "Of course, you know that! Just recently—"

A pointed, accusing finger silences him immediately, the sole opportunity to rebuttal lost. "And don't think Nutter’s prophecy compilation counts! I mean a book you chose to read of your own accord. One that intrigued you enough to give a go, dive into its pages and traverse a new perspective?"

"...no."

Yet the one he fell in love with centuries ago is infatuated with the damn things. The demon's chin is pointing at his chest, hands shifting deeper into black jeans.

Acidic yellow eyes glance up at the huffing angel, his stance similar to a shamed child facing a disappointed parent. After another moment, Crowley raises his hands in surrender just as Aziraphale's fingers reach for his hair. The angel doesn't tug away in frustration, but merely sets his hands on the blonde, cloud-like curls, utterly lost.

Aziraphale is much like a book, actually, with how he summons complications with his tongue over simple matters. The angel whips up a hurricane when describing a dessert, and a quip is contorted into an extended sonnet.

Though he can be oddly charming when at a loss for words, whether he's so angry that nothing intelligible leaves his lips or in awe of the demon's few moments of grace. Either way, Crowley is the king of baffling the high-strung angel.

"Honestly, do you have no shame, speaking such blasphemy in my very own shop?" Downcast eyes miss the grin on Aziraphale’s face. The playful tone is overlooked by the usually observant demon, mind mulling on every word with an intensity that rubs away his partner’s harmless intentions. 

Deeper Crowley’s fingers fall into his pockets, sinking until there’s not an inch left to go. "Why does it matter? It's not like when we started hanging out we weren't aware of our status as literal opposites."

"I know, believe me I do." Aziraphale makes a show of his prominent disapproval, hands on his hips and shaking his head. Though his grin only grows as he gazes at the shamed demon. "It's just so disturbing. You still manage to surprise me after six thousand years."

"Well, you should get by now that I'm plenty good at disappointing you. It's kinda my thing."

"What are you going on about? You don't." Now aware of Crowley’s sullen disposition, Aziraphale immediately begins to fret. Pursed lips droop into a frown as his forehead creases, perplexed. "You’re not still...uncertain about all this, are you?"

Silence. Not a single shift in Crowley’s position besides his head hanging lower, close as it can be to his chest. The angel sucks in a breath, hesitant to continue. Words he fears to speak turn to ice on his lips, but Aziraphale melts them loose with a flick of his tongue. 

"About us—"

"Of course I am!" Crowley's voice is venomous as it booms. However, its intensity clashes with how his back curls, tearing himself further away from Aziraphale without taking a step, like he's trying to hide. He's hurting. 

Another moment of quiet goes by before the demon barely breaks through its tension, the volume of his voice shrinking into a mere grumble. "I mean, can you blame me? What if, after being here long enough, you realize you want someone who has more in common with you?"

"I've been here long enough to know what I want. You have too, so where is this coming from?” Aziraphale takes a step forward, but no more than that. Anxious desperation commands him to go closer, but he doesn't want to give way to more chaos. Crowding Crowley while he's in such a state would only cause him to completely shut Aziraphale out.

"Crowley?" Despite the desire, the need, to cradle the demon in his arms, Aziraphale merely hovers a safe distance away, made short of breath by anticipation. Instead of forcing a physical response out of Crowley with a touch, the angel opts to elicit a verbal one by doing what he does best. "...sweetheart? Pudding cup? Honeycomb? Sugar bottom?"

"Okay, enough already!" Crowley strides forward, arm stretched and palm open to cover the angel’s mouth. A snicker eases its way out of Crowley as Aziraphale sputters in surprise. Crowley drops his hand. Grins form on their faces together, the pair descending into laughing fits. Falling into a new silence, a more comfortable one, the angel stares into the eyes behind dark frames earnestly.

“My dear, we left everything we knew for each other. If I preferred the company of stuffy, dull angels, I wouldn't have defied them to save this place. To stay here."

‘With you’ doesn’t need to be said, because it’s obvious. At least, it should be, yet Crowley only shakes his head, pulling further away. "No, you left them for this world, not me. For sushi and plays and that ridiculous thing you call dancing..."

"Crowley, you are this world. You are my entire world. Sure, I adore the earth's cultures and delicacies, but you make it feel like home. I can't imagine being here without you."

To Aziraphale’s relief, the demon doesn’t look away or pull back. The two remain locked into their spots, weighed down by contemplation and awe of each other’s existence. When palpable quiet fills the room for the upteenth time, Aziraphale shuffles in place. He’s becoming wary of these long silences. 

Crowley finally slices it with a snort. "You are… disgustingly sentimental."

"Oh, come on!"

"What a sap.”

"Is that all you have to say for your—"

Aziraphale’s start to his red-faced tirade is shushed by the demon’s sudden proximity. His cheeks glow for a new purpose when Crowley leans in, pressing their foreheads together. 

"You really are too much."

Too full, too complex, too soft; just like a book. Crowley wouldn't have it any other way.

"Well, look who's the sap now."

Crowley takes immense pleasure in shoving the smirking angel against a bookshelf.


End file.
